


Triadverse One-shots

by MelyndaR



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Triadverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyndaR/pseuds/MelyndaR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ten Sherlock triadverse one-shots, each being completely individual from the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock/Irene/Jim

**The Brutal Truth – Sherlock/Irene/Jim – 130 words**

The brutal truth of it is that they're dangerous – all three of them. They're dangerous, and deadly, and powerful, and they're loose cannons. The brutal truth of it is that Sherlock hates Jim as much as he'll ever love him. The brutal truth of it is that Sherlock still isn't sure he knows what love is, and Jim is sure that he doesn't, no matter how many times the others try, in their own ways, to tell him that he does. The brutal truth of it is that if it was just the two of them – Sherlock and Jim – trying to make this… _relationship_ – both men still curl up their noses at the word – work between them, they would've already killed each other.

And _that_ is why they have Irene.


	2. Greg/Anthea/Mycroft

**The Car – Lestrade/Anthea/Mycroft – 200 words**

Greg really isn't sure how long they've been doing this anymore. Honestly, he isn't even sure what "this" is supposed to be. He's only met Mycroft Holmes twice outside of this car – once when they very first met, and a second time when Mycroft showed up in person at Greg's apartment to inform him that the car would be coming 'round for him the next day, and "there's no reason for you to be distressed; just get in the vehicle."

As predicted, the car had come the next day, and Greg had obediently climbed in. Mycroft had already been inside, along with a woman the detective inspector had _never_ met outside of this car. Outside of this car, Greg knew she was called Anthea.

Inside the car, though… that was something else. They all became something else. Anthea became Lisa, the name whispered like a secret between the trio for reasons, protectiveness, that Greg was beginning to feel right along with Mycroft. Mycroft became… kind. Sweet. _Human._ As for Greg himself… he wasn't sure _what_ he became around this pristine duo that was so inexplicably willing to let their guard down around him. He just knew that he liked it.


	3. Greg/Molly/Mycroft

**Molly's Fault – Lestrade/Molly/Mycroft – 221 words**

It's Molly's fault, it's Molly's fault, it's _all Molly's fault._ Neither one of them can deny her anything.

She's far from being the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, Mycroft reminds himself, and she's – logically speaking – still just a goldfish in the middle of the whole world-wide ocean. But then she smiles at him like the sun, and she _becomes_ Mycroft's world. Greg, on the other hand, knows a good thing when he has it, and he has no intention of letting her go. She's wonderful at her job, intelligent in her own right, and he'd seen her in that Christmas dress. He has no problem calling her beautiful.

Mycroft and Greg love her for different reasons and for the same reasons. They see her differently, but exactly the same too. She's bright and sweet and _good_ , and neither man is willing to let her go.

So she sees them both separately for a while, both man aware that the other is in her life, but they're ultimately unconcerned. They're both sure that they will be the one to win her over in the end.

Then, after Molly's repeated insistence, Mycroft and Greg meet each other… and they instinctively know what the perfect solution is. And somehow, the men decide together, they will make this out to be _All Molly's Fault._


	4. John/Sarah/Sherlock

**Despite Himself – John/Sarah/Sherlock – 367 words**

"No, John."

"Yes, Sherlock!"

"I don't want to, and I won't."

"I don't care, and, yes, you will!"

"No…" Sherlock drawled, eyeing the way John was pacing in front of Sherlock's chair. "I won't."

"For Heaven's sake, Sherlock! It's just a date – one date – and she's a _doctor_."

"She's a goldfish."

John whipped around to face Sherlock, taking a deep breath as he said firmly, "She is my colleague and my friend, and I like her. Trust me. One date – that's all I'm asking."

With Sherlock, women either absolutely took to him on first sight or absolutely _didn't,_ anyway, that much John had already learned in their year together. He was never going to tell Sherlock so, but the consulting detective was the one of the two of them that it was difficult to find a third for, not John.

"Please," John tried again. "Just one date." He pulled out his trump-card, requesting, "Do it for me."

Sherlock stared at him for a beat, growling low in his throat, and John bit back a smile, knowing he'd won. "Good," John nodded. "I'll call Sarah and tell her we're on for the circus."

* * *

Sherlock rolled over on the king-sized bed in his and John's apartment, leaning up on one elbow to survey the duo he was sharing the bed with. John was in the middle, sleeping soundly after the night's excursion, with moonlight glinting off of his silvery-blonde hair. The edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched with relief as he listened to the steady sound of John's gentle snoring.

Satisfied that his partner was fine, Sherlock's gaze shifted to the first-time occupant of this bed. He and John had brought Sarah back here almost without thought after the unexpected events at the circus, and John – playing doctor despite Sherlock and Sarah's worried protests about him – had quickly gotten her to lay down and rest. If the three of them hadn't spent _all_ evening _resting_ in the bed, then who's to say who's fault that was?

Looking to her, Sherlock found Sarah wide awake, smiling softly at him as her gaze, bright in the darkness, caught his. And Sherlock, for all of his initial reservations, smiled back at her.


	5. Jim/Molly/Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a crossover with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

**Stepford Wife – Moran/Molly/Moriarty – 443 words – Agents of SHIELD crossover**

"Hello!" Jim smiled smoothly at the bearded man walking into the office. "I hope you don't mind me making yourself comfortable in your chair. It was about the only decent place in this warehouse," Jim babbled, watching out of the corner of his eye as Seb slid into place, an imposing presence between the young man and the door, should the man decide to run. "But you don't even know our names! How rude of me! I'm Moriarty. This," he gestured to Seb, "Is my partner, Mr. Moran. You are," Jim arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Grant Ward, aren't you?"

The man merely nodded, his pupils blown with fear even if the rest of his body didn't betray the emotion. "Is there, ah," the new leader of HYDRA tried to strike a casual pose as he eyed Jim's shining eyes warily, hand never straying from the gun on his hip. "Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?" Grant glanced a little pointedly at the body bag in the corner where Seb had stashed it.

The bag's… _contents_ were starting to stir, muffled noises coming from within.

"So eager to please!" Jim piqued. "I'm glad! I wouldn't want Moran or I to have to harm such an… ambitious man as yourself." Ward glanced between Jim and Seb, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively, Jim noticed gratifyingly. "We've come a long way to talk to you, Mr. Ward," Jim revealed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the other man's desk. "We heard that HYDRA has a program for, ah… how to put it delicately? Changing the mind of the particularly resistant, shall we say?"

"You mean brainwashing?" Ward asked bluntly.

"Mm…" Jim hummed. "If we must be so crass about it, then, yes, brainwashing. We've heard you've done incredibly… _long-lasting_ work on the, ah, what is his name again, Moran, darling?"

"The Winter Soldier," Seb intoned with a wry twist of his lips, knowing full-well that Jim already remembered this information himself.

"Ah, yes!" Jim stabbed the air happily. "The Winter Soldier."

"The Asset," Ward agreed with a stiff nod. "What about him?"

"Moran and I just want to know if you can replicate that work on an… unwilling friend of ours."

For the first time, Grant Ward smiled, a dark, twisted thing that Jim delighted in because it was so much like his own smile. "I think I can do that," Ward replied.

"Good!" Jim beamed, going over to the wriggling body bag and unzipping it, looking down at the bound and gagged woman within. Glee was scrawled across his face as he declared, "Time to become a good little Stepford wife, Molly!"


	6. Sherlock/Mary/John

**Trying – John/Mary/Sherlock – 504 words**

They work brilliantly together, the three of them, but they're hard to define – especially _after._ After Mary – or whatever her real name is; Mycroft knows, Sherlock might too, but nobody's telling anybody anything and John's not sure how he feels about that – shoots Sherlock.

John's a soldier. John's a doctor. John's an _army doctor._ He's an adrenaline addict in denial. He's the strangest concoction of rage and nurturing to have ever inhabited a human body.

Sherlock is a genius. Sherlock is a sociopath. He's indispensable and incorrigible. He's a drug addict whether or not he'll admit it. He's quite possibly the strangest, most infuriating person John has ever met.

Mary is a nurse. Mary is an assassin. She's a one person today, but has had a hundred more aliases in the past. So which of those people is the true persons, and not a mask? Today – and for the rest of her life, she desperately hopes and prays – she is Mary Morstan, and that is more than good enough for her.

One time, Sherlock confessed to having gone on a date – "It was just one, John, and only because they're _interesting_ ; don't look at me like that!" – with Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler. The idea of those three as an established triad had made John's stomach turn over from the sheer danger and recklessness that they would so effortlessly represent. These days, he's not sure which triad is worse in that respect –Sherlock with Jim and Irene, or Sherlock with him and Mary.

But they're still trying. They're trying to get back to solid ground – though it's mostly because of Sherlock that John hasn't already left their wife – but it's not easy. The air sometimes hangs thick with secrets that the boys now know Mary still holds, and isn't likely to reveal. John is dealing with more rage than ever before, and when he explodes these days – which is more often than ever – there are moments when he is physically violent about it. Sherlock has somehow managed to compose no less than nine pieces of ridiculously complicated music – full-on violin concertos, John's almost certain – and the soldier is starting to get the feeling that it's in a futile effort to ward off a screaming fest the likes of which is usually more of John's caliber.

At first, Sherlock couldn't even sleep in the same bed as their wife – not that John presently wanted to anyway – so she took the couch without a word, and there they were for over a month and a half. Then Mary switched perfumes, John forced himself to start buying her flowers again in hopes that one day he might actually _want_ to again, and Sherlock gave her puppy and asked her if she was coming to bed with him and John as if things had never changed, even though they had.

But still, it was John, Mary, and Sherlock. There was nothing they couldn't do if they put their minds to it. And they wanted their marriage to last.


	7. John/Irene/Sherlock

**Promise –John/Irene/Sherlock - 490**

"Hamish! John Hamish Watson. Just, if you were looking for baby names."

Both Sherlock and Irene had finally turned to look at John when he'd made that remark, ages ago. Sherlock had horror in his eyes, but Irene, at least, had finally smiled at him. And maybe he'd fallen a little bit in love with her even that early on. Not that he'd been as far gone as Sherlock was on her for a long while.

But the point to that memory popping back up now, John thought, was that both of them had looked at him like it was a stupid remark – like there was _never any way_ that was going to become relevant information.

And now? Now here they were here, and John was the one getting the last laugh. Well. Maybe he'd be laughing later, at some point, when Irene wasn't trying to break his hand. At the moment, though, he was fairly certain he had a couple of fractured fingers thanks to the death grip his and Sherlock's wife had on them.

At least Sherlock didn't look to be faring any better from where he was holding Irene's other hand on the other side of the hospital bed. Irene, the one actually laying in the bed – the one who was really in pain right now, she'd reminded her husbands more than once in the past twenty-four hours of labor – had stopped screaming a little bit ago and now only whimpered her way through another contraction.

Sherlock had long ago proved to be useless at anything that resembled sweet-talking or giving verbal comfort, so the sociopath merely brushed the sweaty strands of her hair off of Irene's forehead as John promised, "You're doing great, sweetheart. I mean it. Just a bit longer now, and it'll all be over."

"I've lost _count_ of how many times you've said that," Irene ground out accusingly.

"She's right," Sherlock said simply, and John glared across the bed at him.

So apparently the soldier wasn't the best at sweet-talking either.

Irene said, her tone severe despite her clear exhaustion, "We _will_ find out which one of you two is directly responsible for this child's existence, and I _will hurt_ whichever one of you it is."

"Promise?" John asked cheekily, because life with Sherlock and Irene had polluted him beyond all hope of recovery – not that he really minded.

All the same that ripped a dry chuckle from his wife, and she gave his hand a far gentler squeeze than most of the others had been today. "I _promise_."

Irene tensed as soon as the words had left her mouth, her expression declaring that another contraction was coming on, and John – ever a doctor even when this wasn't his patient – said, "Push through it, sweetheart, and this will be the last one. Let's meet this baby."

The baby that they did, in fact, name Hamish – and it was _all_ John's fault, after all.


	8. John/Molly/Sherlock

**Because I Love You – John/Molly/Sherlock – 691 words**

The first night Sherlock stayed in Molly's flat after his "suicide," they tried both sleeping in her bed since it was the only one she had in said flat. The next night, Sherlock vetoed a repeat of that setup, declaring that he felt he needed his space. Molly didn't let on that she knew that the only real problem he had with it was that it wasn't _John_ in the bed beside him.

"Promise me you'll look after him for me, Molly," he requested, his eyes wide and puppy-dog-like in the moments before he left to go eradicate Moriarty's network. He seemed genuinely worried and anxious as he said, "Don't… don't let him hurt himself. And make sure that he eats. And sleeps. Sometimes he'll have nightmares and flashbacks to Afghanistan, and when he does that, I just, I – well, I play the violin without waking him, and he'll calm without having to know that I know he's having a nightmare, but that's neither here nor there, is it?" he looked down at his feet, shuffling them with a sigh. He hesitated again, repeating, "Just do your best to look after him. Please."

"Of course," she said gently, melting inside at his obvious love for his partner.

Before she could stop herself, she kissed him on the cheek, and then he was gone.

* * *

Armed with Sherlock's bumbling warnings, it didn't take Molly long to notice exactly how John was, indeed, falling apart. He didn't look like he'd slept in forever, and she could tell he was getting skinnier.

So she invited him to dinner. Once, twice.

And to make sure he slept, she invited him to sleep in _her_ flat after dinner. Only… they didn't exactly _sleep_.

Molly wasn't really sure that she'd meant for it to happen. As a matter of fact, she was sure that it _wasn't_ what she'd meant to happen… but it had. In the process of keeping her promise to Sherlock Holmes, she and John Watson had fallen in love with each other.

It killed her from the start to keep the truth of Sherlock's death from John, but… _Sherlock. She had to protect Sherlock,_ she reminded herself nearly every time she saw John. But that fact never made the secret-keeping easier. Especially not when, after their first year as a primer couple, John asked her to move in with him.

Two years after Sherlock's "death," John and Molly were out at a restaurant – _in public; what were you thinking, Sherlock?!_ – when the sociopath "came back from the dead," as it were. Molly and John's carefully, painfully, constructed happiness went down the tubes, and Molly found herself in a little donut shop, standing beside Sherlock and across from John as the doctor yelled at her, "You _knew_?!"

"I'm _sorry_!" Molly said for the tenth time, nearly in tears beside Sherlock.

John looked away, eyes blazing before he suddenly turned away and walked out completely, muttering, "Don't even talk to me."

Molly began to cry fully before John was even at the door. When the doctor glanced over his shoulder, the last thing he saw of Molly and Sherlock for the evening was, Molly's face resting in the curve of Sherlock's neck as he the detective wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whispering his own apologies into her ear.

"John won't even want me to go back to our apartment," Molly moaned tearfully. "Not when he's this angry."

"Then you can come to 221B," Sherlock said logically. "There's two bedrooms."

The thought came to mind that was how things had begun between her and John, too, in a way, but she didn't say that. She just nodded.

The next morning, Sherlock asked her if she wanted to go solve crimes with him… and that's how it began with _him_.

That evening, after she'd followed him back to his flat, John found them both there, and he sat down in his old chair, sighing as he said, "Do you understand that the only reason I'm so mad at you both is… is because I love you both?"

And that's how it began between the three of them.


	9. John/Molly/Greg

**Of Course – John/Molly/Lestrade - 834 words** _(This takes place sometime around ASiP)_

Molly and Greg weren't a thing. They _weren't_. Not really. Greg was too old for her, and Molly preferred dating couples anyway. Sure, they had dated off and on over the years that they'd known each other, and there was _attraction_ there, but they _weren't a thing_.

Sherlock smirked every time one of them insisted exactly that, but they both opted to ignore him. What did Sherlock Holmes know about relationships, anyway, right?

"Right," Greg insisted, sitting across the table from Molly as they shared lunch in St. Bart's cafeteria.

"Of course," Molly seconded.

Greg wiped his hands on a paper napkin, clearing his throat as he said, "Anyway. I'm here to see the proof of COD for Mr. Carmichael, remember?"

Molly nodded, her smile thin and a little awkward as she stood, reminding herself, _Couples. I date couples._

When they got down to the morgue, though, Sherlock was working in Molly's lab… and there was an unknown man with him. "Who's he?" Molly murmured to Greg.

"That is Dr. John Watson," Greg replied, tone soft and succinct. "He's Sherlock Holmes' new _flat mate."_

"The poor man!" Molly whispered, surveying the stranger through the window in the morgue's door, where she and Greg had stopped to talk. "Does he know what he's asking for?"

Greg shrugged. He didn't particularly consider it any of his business.

All the same, Molly declared, "We should tell him – invite him out to coffee one time and just… lay it out for him, what Sherlock can be like, I mean."

"You and me?"

"We _are_ the couple that interact with Sherlock the most, aren't we? _Not_ -" she tried to cover rapidly for her wording, blushing as she stammered, "That we're a couple, just that- that we're the _two_ people who, that is, uh – Sherlock." Her shoulders sagged as she added on a breath, "Yeah. Um… Sorry."

Greg shook his head dismissively, a fond smile touching the corners of his mouth. He rested a hand between her shoulder blades, gently pushing forward into the morgue as he said, "Coffee sounds nice. For Dr. Watson's sake, of course."

"Of course," Molly repeated as Sherlock looked up at them.

"Ah, Molly! _And_ Detective Inspector Lestrade. Brilliant! John, these two have something to ask you."

"We do?" Greg asked in confusion.

"That's what your body language says," Sherlock replied innocently.

But Molly saw the tick of a knowing smile that he was trying so desperately to hide, and she rolled her eyes. Greg apparently saw it too, because he shook his head in irritation, shoving his hands into his pockets as he glared a little at Sherlock. Dr. Watson surveyed the three of them curiously.

"Sorry," the doctor asked. "Did I miss something?"

"Everyone always misses things," Sherlock muttered, turning back to peer through the microscope again. There was a beat of silence, and then Sherlock glanced at Greg and Molly, gesturing expectantly towards John as he inquired, "Aren't you going to – you know – _ask him?_ "

Dr. Watson looked innocently at Greg and Molly, asking with a friendly smile, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Believe me," Greg replied dryly, frowning at Sherlock before he gave Dr. Watson a thin smile. "It's what Molly and I can do for _you_."

"We'd like to take you out for coffee," Molly said simply. "Maybe tomorrow afternoon?"

Greg added, "To talk to you about-" he glanced pointedly towards a grinning Sherlock. " _Something_."

"Some _one_ ," Molly corrected tolerantly.

Greg nodded absently.

"Oh," John looked between the two of them with a brightening smile, commenting, "I didn't realize that you two were a couple."

"No!" Greg rushed to assure him.

Molly added quickly, "We're not."

John looked to Sherlock, raising an amused eyebrow. "Ah." He nodded slowly as he turned his attention back to the not-couple who'd just asked him out. "I think I understand exactly what's going on here."

"I'm glad someone else does," Sherlock muttered happily, turning back to the microscope. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time until all three of you do."

"Shut up, Sherlock," Greg ordered gruffly.

Sherlock mimicked Molly as he piqued, "Of course."

Then he slipped out the doors of the morgue with John at his side. They were clear of St. Bart's and walking back to 221B when he finally asked, "What did you think of them?"

"They're exactly what you described, I think."

"So… not disappointed?"

"Not at all. Given time," John grinned at the prospect, feeling ridiculously pleased with the idea. "And some convincing, I think that the three of us could maybe give _something_ a try."

Sherlock looked at his new friend sideways as they walked, grinning knowingly as he nodded. "I'm glad you agree. It's taken me absolutely forever to come up with someone I like enough to introduce them to Graham and Molly, but… I like you, and they do too."

John thought back to the brief encounter he'd had with the duo, replying with a smile, "I like them too. But, Sherlock, you said his name is Greg."


	10. Irene/Sherlock/Molly

**The Impossible – Irene/Sherlock/Molly – 846 words**

"That's… not… possible," John gaped at the woman sitting in Sherlock's _lap_. The _Woman_ Woman! "You're _dead_!" John pointed an accusatory finger at Irene as he took another step into the apartment. "You're dead. You're supposed to be dead. Mycroft said you were dead!"

"Mycroft was wrong," Sherlock piqued, obviously enjoying saying the words.

"Indeed he was," Irene purred, watching the shocked doctor with laughter in her eyes.

"Why are you _here_?" John asked, dropping down into his chair across from Sherlock and Irene as he made a valiant effort to recover from his shock. "And _why_ are you _sitting in Sherlock Holmes' lap_?!"

Irene opened her mouth to answer, but Sherlock gripped her wrist lightly and she looked at him silently as he answered, "That's a… bit of a long story."

"I have time to hear it, I promise. I'll _make_ the time to hear it."

"Not yet," Sherlock requested.

John raised his eyebrows, asking, "Why not?"

"Because we're waiting on a third person."

"Is Mycroft coming?"

"No," Sherlock snorted, saying in amusement, "He's still at home with his secretary and the prime minister, sulking over just how wrong he was."

"His secretary and the prime minister?" John repeated.

Still grinning, Sherlock replied absently, "His spouses."

"Mycroft is married?!"

"Lots of people are married," Irene murmured under her breath, and John could've _sworn_ Sherlock pinched the dominatrix.

Judging by the way the woman grinned, he probably had. But… " _No_!" John cried, cussing colorfully as he was suddenly hit with the thought that maybe – "No!" Sherlock and Irene both raised amused eyebrows at him, and he asked carefully, an edge to his voice, "Who else?"

"'Who else' what?" someone asked from the entryway, and John turned to see Molly Hooper standing there as she shrugged her coat off.

John pointed towards Sherlock, asking irately, "Did you know that Sherlock Holmes was married?"

"He _is_ married," Irene corrected absently, obviously enjoying the drama in the reveal.

"To _you_ \- and _who else_?!" John snapped.

"Oh," Molly whispered, slowly starting to back out the door.

Irene purred, "Oh, don't go, darling! I've just arrived, and I've so missed you and Sherlock both!"

" _What_?!" John demanded, turning back to Molly again from his chair. "Nope." He shook his head sharply. "Nope, I refuse to believe this one. Sherlock Holmes is not a married man, and even if he is, it's certainly not to two women!"

"Why not?" Molly asked curiously.

"Because-Because… Because he's _him_! He's Sherlock Holmes, and marriage does not _suit_ Sherlock Holmes!"

"Actually it suits me quite well; thank you for the concern, though," Sherlock said cheerfully.

"Marriage to Irene and Molly?"

"Yup."

"And Molly and Irene are married to _each other_?"

"That's the way triad marriage works, isn't it?" Molly asked cheerfully.

"How did this _happen_?"

Irene hummed thoughtfully, Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and Molly inhaled deeply.

"What?" John asked hesitantly.

"We just helped each other, really," Molly offered hesitantly.

"Is that how you would put it, darling?" Irene asked, "Because I was going to start the story off with blackmail twice over."

"But it doesn't _really_ begin there," Sherlock objected.

Irene looked at him a little apologetically. "Oh, but it does."

"Really, I'd say it began in Buckingham Palace – and we can even blame Mycroft, if we want. You were even there with me for that part, John."

"Well then, _really_ ," Molly pitched in. "We'd have to say it started in St. Bart's before John was even in the picture – when you and I met, Sherlock."

"No, no, no," Sherlock shook his head. "Molly, let's not kid ourselves. You and I were never truly a couple until we shagged at your place when I died, were we?"

"But Molly and I met before that," Irene reminded Sherlock. "When I _blackmailed_ her into helping me with the original autopsy where you identified my body by 'not my face.'" She shot Molly a sympathetic look, declaring, "I felt so bad for her then, being in love with such an oblivious troll as you."

"I'm not a troll! Nor was I oblivious to love! I caught on when you fell in love with me, didn't I?" Sherlock objected haughtily. "And are we really inferring that our triad started with you two, even though I interacted frequently with both of you long before you interacted with each other?"

"You 'inferred' that, Sherlock," Molly pointed out, finally, slowly, gaining enough confidence to step further into the flat and start to drag a chair over to the area where the others were sitting.

"Oh, don't bother with that thing!" Irene objected, patting Sherlock's knee with a grin. "Come share my chair."

Molly smiled, forsaking the chair where it was as she settled lightly on Sherlock's other knee instead. Her husband kissed her on the cheek in a belated greeting, and then Irene did too.

"Nope," John repeated, unable to make heads or tails of the story the trio had brokenly attempted to tell. "I'm not seeing this. It's not possible."

"But it is," Sherlock replied.

Molly added cheerfully, "And we're glad!"


End file.
